


Sherlollipops - Don't Mess With The Mouse

by MizJoely



Series: 221 Sherlollipops [100]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Crack, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-28 03:19:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5075821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is very loosely based on a tumblr comment made about the fork stabbing scene from TSoT. You remember it, right? Tom mutters that he thinks Sherlock’s pissed and Molly stabs him in the hand with a plastic fork. A blogger thought it would be funny if Tom was actually Moran and was sort of ranting at Jim's grave about how crazy Molly is, and, well…this just sort of happened. Happy 100 Sherlollipops, folks, enjoy the very cracky story that follows!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlollipops - Don't Mess With The Mouse

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to asteraceaeblue for reading this over and doing some hand-holding for me!

He’d done everything right, just the way Jim would have wanted him to. He had; no one could fault him. No one had caught on, not even the great Sherlock Holmes after he’d made his dramatic return from the dead.

So how had things gone so completely to shit?

He asked Jim that very question, not caring if the idiots around him – the police, John Watson, Sherlock BLOODY Holmes – were staring at him as if he were crazy. He wasn’t crazy; he knew Jim was dead. It just helped, talking to him as if he were still alive.

Especially after a day like today.

**Six Months Earlier**

“How’s…Tom?”

“Still not a sociopath.”

“That’s good.”

“And we’re having quite a lot of sex!”

Sherlock blinked. Several times, while Molly chuckled internally. She loved tweaking him a bit now and then. Just to remind him that she wasn’t the stammering little lab mouse who used to worship the ground he walked on. Oh, she still loved him, there was no getting around that, but she’d convinced herself that it was a sort of generalized love rather than a romantic one. After all, she was engaged now – and yes, having quite a lot of sex with Tom Morgan. Maybe it wasn’t the best sex she’d ever had (that honor belonged to the late, unlamented Jim Moriarty who’d been positively inspired the one night they spent together before he strolled off to blow up a bunch of innocent people and nearly kill John and Sherlock), but it was good enough. Adequate.

More than she’d ever get from a certain consulting detective, whom she was convinced was either asexual or possibly an alien who hadn’t quite mastered the art of being human.

The jury was out on which one was more likely to be true, but either way, they were friends now. And she was engaged, so very, very engaged to a nice, rather dull insurance claims adjuster. With a dog and parents with whom they dined every Sunday, and friends who talked about nothing but insurance or football, who drank the same pints every Saturday evening and never seemed to want to hear about her work.

She sighed as Sherlock left (in a swish of dramatic coattails and collar flipping, as usual) and realized two things: she was never actually going to go through with marrying Tom, and she was utterly fooling herself as to her feelings for one William Sherlock Scott Holmes.

She took care of the inconvenient fiancé on the car ride home from John and Mary’s wedding, and resolved to just live with the fact that she’d never ever be able to fall out of love with a man she could never have. She’d tried the expected thing, and look how that had worked out: poorly. Her mother would be disappointed in her for settling, and so would her father, God rest their souls. “No more settling, Molly Anne Hooper,” she scolded herself. Never again.

**The Day After The Wedding**

Sebastian Thomas Moran (aka ‘Tom Morgan’) was pacing, back and forth, back and forth, scowling down at the nondescript headstone that marked Jim Moriarty’s final resting place. “This is all your fault,” he said accusingly. “Your last words to me were to stick to Molly Hooper, remember? Keep her close, be patient, be clever, and eventually _he’d_ come back. So I did exactly what you told me; I kept her close, I was patient…and she stabbed me in the hand with a fork! In the hand! With a fork! Christ, what kind of a crazy woman is she? Who _does_ that?”

He received no answer, of course, but it didn’t stop him from continuing his agitated rant. “At least it was a plastic fork. She’s a bit of a klutz, you weren’t wrong about that, Jimmy boy. Dropped her salad fork and didn’t want to bother the catering staff, so she just pulls a plastic fork out of her handbag nice as you please! As if everyone carries plastic cutlery with them! Said she had it on hand from her last takeaway, when I asked her. Didn’t apologize, though,” he added with a glower, unconsciously rubbing his hand. It hadn’t actually hurt, or not very much, but he’d let out a startled “Ouch!” when she did it, shocked that his sweet little fiancée (fake fiancée, since he never planned to actually marry her) could be so…vicious. It was the first inkling he’d had as to what Jim had possibly seen in her, and how Sherlock bloody Holmes could consider her a friend or at least an ally.

Now she’d gone and dumped him – him! When _he_ was the one who was supposed to dump _her_! He’d had it all planned out: he would leave her at the altar, claiming that it was because she was still in love with Sherlock Holmes, and she would be distraught and go to that wanker for comfort, and he was going to shoot them both dead. Why did people always have to mess up such perfectly good plans? Sherlock had messed up Jimmy’s plan and now Molly had messed up his plan and he was going to have to figure out a Plan B. Because Plan A had actually been Jimmy’s plan as well, since planning wasn’t exactly Sebastian’s strong suit.

Sulking, he stalked off, wrapped in the stupid coat he’d deliberately picked because it was so close to the one Sherlock swanned about in. At least it was warm.

**Now**

“Who is he talking to?” Molly asked quietly, while Sherlock hovered over her, examining her closely for any injuries aside from her bruised wrist (where Moran had grabbed her and attempted to drag her out of the path lab) and the still-bleeding scratch on her forehead (from where she’d accidentally cut herself after slicing Moran’s hand deep enough to show bone).

He shrugged, uninterested in the ravings of a lunatic, far more interested in helping Molly to her feet and getting her safely back to her flat. The scalpel she’d used was bagged up as evidence, John was trying to get her to stand still long enough for him to clean and cover her (admittedly very minor) wound, Mary had discreetly tucked her very illegal handgun away when the police appeared, the paramedics were trying to calm Moran down enough to take care of his bleeding hand, Molly had given her statement, and it was time for this extremely stressful day to just be _over_ with.

Moran was still ranting to no one, even as the police read him his rights and cuffed him (now that the paramedics were done bandaging him). “She stabbed me again, Jim! With a bleedin’ scalpel this time! What kind of crazy woman did you set me up with, huh? First a fork and now a scalpel? You said she’d be easy to deal with!” His voice got a bit higher, mimicking rather eerily Jim Moriarty’s lilting Irish tones. “‘Romance the morgue mouse, you said. She'll be easy to handle, you said. Well she bloody well _wasn’t_ easy to handle, Jimmy! This is all your fault, and do you know why? _Because you have the weirdest taste in women!_ ” That last was practically shouted, and all eyes swiveled to Molly to see how she’d take it.

Without changing expression, she brushed John’s hand away from her (hastily bandaged) forehead, stood up, marched over to her fake ex-fiancé…and punched him in the mouth. Hard.

“Oi, none of that!” Lestrade said, but with a noticeable lack of outrage. “Don’t want to give his lawyer any excuses to get him freed on a technicality, after all.”

“Don’t talk about Molly that way,” Sherlock ordered Moran as he swiftly moved to stand by her side. He barely seemed to realize he’d slung an arm around her and was holding her close to his body. “She’s worth ten of you, and at least five of _Dear Jim_ ,” he added with a sneer.

“To put it in words of one syllable,” Molly put in sweetly, “Don’t mess with the mouse. Especially a mouse who’s being watched over by the British government and has recorded every second of your attack on me. Right, Mycroft?” she said loudly, glancing up at the CCTV cameras occupying the four corners where the walls met the ceilings.

Right on cue, all four cameras waggled up and down as if nodding ‘yes’, and Molly gave a cheeky salute before turning her attention back to Sherlock. Who was staring at her very admiringly. “So,” she said nonchalantly as she reached up to toy with the collar of his Belstaff, “now that that’s sorted, would you like to take me to dinner? Or out for coffee? I could murder a cuppa right about now. Or some chips. Or both.”

“That place on Marleybone I told you about makes a decent cup of coffee,” Sherlock replied eagerly. “You know the one, where I helped the owner…”

“And now he gives you extra portions,” she interrupted him with a grin. “Sounds perfect!” Then she tiptoed up, pulled his head down, and kissed him. Hard. Tongue and everything. To hell with what anyone thought; if she never kissed him again, she wanted to at least have done it once, when she could use the excuse of adrenaline if pressed.

Luckily for her, that wouldn’t appear to be a problem, since Sherlock was kissing her back just as enthusiastically. Tongue and everything.

“Bloody _hell_!” The broke their embrace, both looking over at Moran…but he wasn’t the one who’d spoken, it was John. Who was shaking his head and mumbling something about how he should have seen it coming, while Mary whispered soothingly into his ear…but gave the pair of them a saucy wink and a knowing grin when her husband slapped his hand over his eyes and sighed.

Lestrade cleared his throat, but was grinning as he said, “Right, then, Sherlock, maybe you’d better take Molly home, I’m sure she could use some quality bedrest after the day she’s had.”

“And some quality shagging as well, after months of nothing but ‘Mr. Adequate’ here,” Sherlock added nonchalantly. John sputtered and Moran shouted obscenities as he was wrestled out of the lab, but the consulting detective and the specialty registrar only had eyes – and ears – for each other as they hurried off to the nearest supply cupboard.

After all, why wait till they got to Baker Street to find out if Sherlock was as good as he’d just bragged he was?


End file.
